Answering the call. A guest blog by Wes Dannreuther

People who spend time on the waterknow the day will come when they will need to call someone for help. Whether you are in a Krogan or a kayak stuff happens. I’m excited to share a story with you today told by our son in law, Wes. Without Wes in our business we wouldn’t be on this adventure, we’d have to be seeing to our own operations, (and he is far better suited to run things). A published writer and the chief operations officer of Intracoastal Outfitters he tells the tale of a call for help he received this week from two guys doing the Perdido River paddle. Hope you enjoy his tale.

Answering the Call

I run an outfitter. And I’ve run it long enough to know how to handle some pretty busysituations.Have learnedto enjoy the chaos, really.But yesterday afternoon wassomethingnew.Already in the midst of multipleinteractions,I get a phone call.I glance.Out of state number.That’s normal.We get so many telemarketing calls these days that I’ve almost come to expect an awkward pause followed by a digitized message. Instead of Steve or Sally telling me my Google listing is indanger of being obsolete, I get Frank. And wherever Frank’s calling from,it’s very windy.

“Yes, hello, my friend and I are atCamp Dixie inElbert’s and need a shuttle pick uptomorrowmorning.”

I get caught off guard by phone calls every once in a while. “How’s your cowboy hat selection?”was one of the earliest ones I remember.“Ummm. . . we don’t sell cowboy hats,” was the least sarcastic reply I could come up with.“Well, online it says you do.” I designed the website. I know for a fact that it doesn’t advertise cowboy hats.

We do, however,sell outdoor footwear, clothing, and gear,which I’m guessing is how Frank found me,but wedon’t have a shuttle service of any kind—certainly not one as far as away asElberta. I don’t even know whereElbertais, but it sounds pretty far away, especially when my shop closes in 15 minutes.And in the same way I know my site doesn’t advertise cowboy hats, I know it doesn’t say anything aboutashuttle service.But whileit’s easy for me to routinelydismiss oddball requeststhat I can’t possibly fulfill, there’ssomething about Frank’s tonethat won’t allow me to dismisshim. Not yet anyway.

“Sir, we don’t offer any kind of shuttle service. I’m really not equipped to even help you,” I manage.

“Well you’re the only place I can find. And we need help. The winds have picked up so much. We can’t paddle anymore. I can’t find anyone to help us.”

I look atmy watch. I look at the customers around the room. Then I turn to my right and remember that while I don’t have a commercial vehicle purposed for a shuttle service, I do still have my wife’s minivan, which I was forced to drive today because my Jeep’s in the shop getting brake work done. My mind shifts to the next morning’s schedule. As fast as I can, I figure out where the hellElbertais. Then I find out where they need to go from there. After some fuzzy math, I tell Frank I’ll call him back.

A few minutes later I have checked out the remaining customers, but sometimes even the quickest conversation can turnthoughtful, andmeaningful, and by the time I prepare the shop for closing, I realize I had almost forgotten about Frank.And Chuck.ApparentlyFrank called from Chuck’s phone, and apparently these two havebeen paddling enough together where they know whose job is what. When shit hits the fan, apparentlyyou give the phone toFrank.

There’s a part of me that thinkit’sabsurd, but the better part of me spent many years in a kayak. Sometimes on rivers, but more often on open water where the wind and seas can turn an easy paddle into a grind—that better part of me almost got the Coast Guard called out on me on one tripbecause the forecast was so bad. I demanded my wife and brother-in-law not do so, and I got myself home. But I was a lot younger then. Frank didn’t sound so young. He sounded tired. And he sounded desperate. The better part of me is also logistical, and having seen just how ruralElbertais, I understood the predicament they were in. You can’t exactly call Uber when you’ve got touring kayaks and hundreds of pounds of gear. It’s a niche need.And when you’re in a jam of this kind, you can rest a lot easier as long as you know you have a plan for the next day. It’s the uncertainty that eats at you, and these guys were up against the clock.I pull up the caller ID.

“Frank? Yea,heylisten, I’ll be there about 9 o’clock.”Frankis very thankful andasks about what it will cost, but the relief I hear in his voice has already been payment enough.Of course, when I get home and tell my wife what I’m doing, that’s not enough for her.

“Who are these guys?”

“I don’t know.Frank and Chuck.”

I won’t write what she said next as I think there might be innocent eyes reading this blog.

What she doesn’t know, though, is that in the meantime I had discovered that Frank and Chuck were part of a larger group paddling from the upper end of thePerdidoRiver down to the Gulf as part of an environmental awareness campaign. Part of those many years I spent kayaking was with groups.Groups who loved doing thesekinds of trips for causes.Any excuseto getout on the water. The better part of me had known pretty quickly what these guys were all about. I explained all of that to my wife, which went a long way, just so long as I promised to have Frank and Chuck text me pictures of their photo ID’s she could have ready for the police just in case anything happened. I laughed ather concern, but onceherback was turned I made sure my knife was clipped to my belt.

Anyway, next morning, sure enough, the drive toElbert’s was absolutely beautiful, almost therapeutic. And the scene I found at Camp Dixie was pretty much exactly as I had imagined.The boats, the gear, the people.It was a subculture I had lived in so many years ago—in a different state, but it’s the same community no matter where you go.

We got my wife a new car last summer. Ever since then I keep thinking about selling her old minivan. The problem is, it’s paid for, has well over 200K miles onit, and I know I can’t get anythingfor it anyway. But the better part of me knows where I bought that van.I bought it from my wife’s grandfather who passed away nearly three years ago. He and my wife’s grandmother are two of the most generous people I’ve ever known, and even though I was in the middle of a totally hectic situation when Frank called, and even though the last thing I could imagine doing between getting kids to school the next morning, running errands, and getting to work—the last thing I needed to be doing was driving toElbertato rescue some stranded kayakers I’ve never met—despite that, I knew what I should do. I should answer the call. Because those kids I’m shuttling to school are getting older, and soon our adventures will become more daring, and I’m sure at some point I’m going to need some stranger to do the same.

Share this:

Like this:

LikeLoading...

Published by saltyatsixty

Since 1978 my husband Mike and I have been owner/operators of our own retail business. Our days off always included boating. The Pascagoula River system and the Northern Gulf Coast islands and the ICW were our playground. Now we toss the lines and go further. Want to come along?
View all posts by saltyatsixty

6 Replies to “Answering the call. A guest blog by Wes Dannreuther”

And that is why I have Wes at the helm of my business while Lee and I are out living our adventure on the Pelican. It’s not a matter of “if” it’s a matter of “when “. Good job Wes. Everyone remember: Do on to others, as you would want done to yourself .. Mac